


Memories

by Sharpiefan



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Character Study, Early in Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is so much easier when you know who the enemy is. Kira's thoughts on the Occupation, the Federation and her life, in the weeks after <i>Emissary</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/303854) by [VelvetMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMouse/pseuds/VelvetMouse). 



> On reading Ghosts by VelvetMouse (who has never heard of me!), the idea for this hit me. Hard. 
> 
> I do not own Star Trek, DS9 or any of the characters. They belong to Paramount, though I could wish otherwise. I am making no profit from playing in this sandbox and I leave things neat and tidy when I'm done.

They don't see it.

Even Odo doesn't see it, though if anyone should, he should at least be able to guess at it.

It was easy enough in the Resistance, when you knew who your enemies were, and had a pretty good idea about your friends.

In the Resistance, everyone who was not a Bajoran was an enemy – with that one exception, of course. And then the Withdrawal happened, and everything became so confused.

Lupaza had said years ago that I had – have, I suppose – the heart of a sinoraptor. Strong, quick to take advantage of any opening I'm given. But all I feel now is confused. And angry. It's easy to be angry, but it's really not helping.

Furel told me I moved like a hara cat, all grace and silence.

The silence was easy. Necessary – a life skill. Well, a skill to keep a fighter alive, which isn't quite the same thing at all.

But up here, on this space station, I look at the others and I don't fit. Dax, twenty-eight or three hundred, she's got this easy grace and perfect hair. I feel like a Cardassian vole next to her. OK, maybe not a vole exactly, but not pretty, not carelessly graceful like her.

Commander Sisko has this air of command that seems to come so easily to him, that can make people do things they don't want to do, would never do if it was anyone else asking them. It makes me feel incompetent, something I never felt in the Shakaar when I knew exactly what to do. And he's the Emissary. How could the Prophets choose someone who doesn't even believe in Them to be the Emissary, over those who've fought and died for the freedom to worship Them without risking everything? I suppose that's something They probably won't ever share.

Doctor Bashir knows everything about everything and doesn't shut up. 'Frontier medicine' he called it, the first time we spoke. It's no frontier to me. Bajor is the centre of my universe and has been all my life. I just feel ignorant about other stuff.

Nobody heard the quick hitch of breath when Gul Dukat first hailed the station. It took everything I had not to duck my head, not to mumble something and call him 'sir'. Not because I wanted to, but even three weeks before, any Bajoran not showing the correct respect could have been killed out of hand. Survival instincts don't die easily, and Resistance fighters more than most have strong survival instincts. Even if sometimes it means calling a spoonhead 'sir'.

It's easy to cower, on the surface, while still hating those who expect it as their due. Maybe that's why I'm so angry. Turn fear into hate, into anger, and you look strong.

Dax never saw my eyes widen when I first saw the Celestial Temple open. I never thought I'd see it in my lifetime – never really thought it existed. Oh, I _hoped_ , of course, but I never really had any sort of proof that the Prophets were there, and it took an unbeliever to find the Temple.

I still don't understand why the Prophets would speak to a non-believer when they were silent to us for so long. Maybe I will one day. But right now, I have to work with the Emissary, who's not a Bajoran, and I don't know how. He's not a Cardassian, either, though.

It's a start.

Odo listens when I talk. Neither of us mention the Occupation, but neither of us has to, because we were both there and both understand about it. And now we're both outsiders on a station run according to Starfleet rules and regs. We're both feeling our way, but we don't talk about that.

I used to pray that this day would come, that one day I would wake up and not need to be in fear for my life, that I'd have enough food to eat, that I wouldn't need to wonder if my friends would come back from a mission, if _I_ would come back.

And then we watched the Cardassians leaving, and not being replaced. It was two days after they'd left that we finally allowed ourselves to hope that was it. We went into the city, looking out in case and found that everyone was in the streets, talking, crying. Laughing.

We got drunk that night. Really drunk, lying out on the ground, staring up at the stars, and wondering for the first time if the Runners were just running for fun.

I don't think I've laughed since. I don't think I know how to laugh with these difficult, strange, complicated, competent people.

I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder what they think of me. Do they see me, out of my depth, struggling to understand this strange new world without an enemy in it? Do they care that I've fought since I was twelve and don't know how to do anything else? The fighter with the fire-red hair and a temper to match. I've taken it out on the console so many times I'm surprised I haven't broken it yet. Though there's so much else that's broken on this station, one more thing wouldn't really matter.

I still sleep lightly, waking at the lightest sound, the slightest whisper of something not right, my hand sliding towards a phaser that isn't there any more.

I fought for a future, and now that I have one, I don't know what to do with it. But I can't tell anyone here.

So I pretend that I know what to do when faced with yet another unknown situation. I fix a scowl on my face and muddle through my confusion, hoping that one day it will fall into place and I will actually have a clue. Those around me don't know I'm scared, terrified, reacting in the only way I know how.

They won't know. But I do.


End file.
